


cruelty is all that we know of

by ascxndent



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: F/M, i didn't get no sleep cause a' y'all, if the fandom won't write my fix then i'll make it myself breaking bad style, trash shipping hell, y'all not goin' get no sleep 'cause a' me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 09:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5739235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascxndent/pseuds/ascxndent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"i love you" --- should either one ever say that, does not necessarily equate to the promise of --- "i would never hurt you."  ( or; a series of sporadic drabbles of the chaotic, selfish, doomed, so-called siblings of an order )</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a kiss with a fist is better than n o n e

**Author's Note:**

> yeah check me out kids, being the loser shipping trash that absolutely nobody cares about all.

in the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene  
only then am i human, am i _c l e a n_

**.**

**.**

**.**

their names are the first to be discarded --- as it is explained, single identities are _irrelevant_ when they are bound as a whole to an entire order --- and think nothing of it. it only belongs to the long, unfortunate list of memories willingly forsaken in order to become who they are now; bloodlines, families, origins, _childhood_. none will provide any use in their sworn devotion to the empire, and it is something they understand ( when curiosity aches and tempts them they try to remember --- they response is a painful, slow burn. the beginnings of atrocious migraines, a wall stands in their way blocking off those memories anyways ) they belong to the empire, entirely, and shall someday, inevitably, die for their empire as well.

and chances are they shall die forgotten; for the empire has little time to spare building tombstones. thus, names are irrelevant for themselves and for others to bother remembering.

_brother_. _sister_. it is only common courtesy, all that either has to go by to call to the other.

( it becomes a sick, morbid, inside joke between the two of them )

**.**

**.**

**.**

he is virtually colorblind, but _knows_ of the color red in itself. it’s the embers that remain in the ruins where temples once burned, it is the fury of his blade when brought down upon others, and it is released from his skin when her claws leave their mark.

he would kill to see the golden flecks in her eyes --- contrasting the bottomless pits of black in them --- and the nature of how they brighten with delight in everything she does. see, that is the definitive aspect separating the two; she is passionate, vivacious, laughing with adoration to her duties when she kills whereas he is silent, cold, remorseless ( which is, _arguably_ , scarier to have when one thinks so little of what they do ) and how fitting for it to show in their vision; his world consists mostly of blacks and whites and greys, with only tidbits of desaturated color --- everything is yes and no. one or the other. no in-betweens --- and she, meanwhile, sees a full and complicated spectrum.

sometimes, if he were to ask, she will whisper descriptions to him of what is he unable to truly see for himself. perhaps she does it out of pity ( he _laughs_ at the thought --- for she is not a sympathetic creature ) or she does it for the opportunity to relive the thrill of a moment, with these hushed whispers of excitement describing the sceneries of the massacres done by their hands. her voice will often become high pitched, breathless, rambling on and he will listen intently and ever adoring of her nature in those moments.

**.**

**.**

**.**

_hate_ _hate_ _hate_. it surges through their blood and bones, through pounding heartbeats, intermixed by starved desires. his hands, even at his gentlest, when he cares to even consider her well-being, will leave lasting bruises on her hips. she is so thin, so fragile looking, he will never forget how she deceived half the inquisitorius the day she walked in --- the eyes of others filled with skepticism, doubt she would last. she has since killed _almost_ all of them --- and knows of her high pain tolerance anyways. she was always crueler anyways, and it shows when her teeth break his skin, littering him with affectionate wounds.

( that is their second set of uniforms that have ruined within the last six standard months; torn apart thread by thread by impatient, reckless hands )

it is not their first nor their kindest. for whatever reason, they are exceptionally harsh onto the other when they do this _prior_ to missions. it takes genuine effort to conceal a smirk at how the other will wince in the morning after, with sore muscles they cannot stretch and their skin a painted canvas that must be concealed with proper care. they cannot afford to raise suspicion, even the slightest, seemingly harmless play of whispers between low-ranking stormtroopers spells potential danger.

around others, they become wolves --- territorial, spiteful, unforgiving creatures --- childishly snickering over the other’s mistakes, teeth bared and snarling over prey that was claimed to be found by one or the other first.

**.**

**.**

**.**

“someone will walk in. someone will find us like this – “ he murmurs, almost hesitant, almost afraid when is usually _never_. she cares little for these ramblings.

“let them.” she decrees, irrational and proud, with a haughty smirk to compliment those wicked features upon her face.

**.**

**.**

**.**

it’s simple, really. they’ve decided that they’ll simply kill anyone who dares whisper such ill, vulgar _rumors_ about them. they have all the power in the galaxy to do as they please and get away with most things, within reason. after all, both are excellent liar.

( for example; _‘i love you’_ – were it ever to be spoken by either one, does not necessarily equate to – _‘i will not kill you should master ever command me to’_ )

**.**

**.**

**.**

and yet, for whatever reason, they intend to die together. _if_ they should die. perhaps they shall outlive all their siblings, outlast every unworthy individual and succeed to power that is rightfully theirs. king and queen, queen and king; there’s a ring, an echo, a catch to those titles. but dying is an inevitable process, the thought of being separated from the other is a horrifying concept neither dwells upon. granted, neither displays it in their actions when they tell each other that one dying will hardly faze the other, but they don’t mean it. you don’t mean it. but cruelty is their only mean of endearment to one another. neither knows how to display affection to the other, that is a language never learned, a foreign ability that will only weaken them. but _i will not let you die alone and unavenged, i promise, i promise, i promise_.

it’s the more preferable option to die anyways, as opposed to returning alone in handling their master’s disappointed wrath. they have since learned that perhaps the grand inquisitor had been the smartest one after all, evading while there was still a chance. both shudder at the prospect of yet another failure, to admit their enemies are stronger than perceived, and to be alive to witness their master’s ever worsening temper.

**.**

**.**

**.**

“we belong together.” she tells him one night, laying atop and hips grinding teasingly, with a smile as sweet as slow-working, honey coated poison. he knows what she is, knows of the games she plays, and yet he hopelessly sinks further into her hooks. she says it, again and again, and he almost starts to believe it.

“you and i --- we belong together.” you’re mine. you’re mine. you’re mine.

and i suppose i could pretend to be _yours_.

**.**

**.**

**.**


	2. but darling you don't mean it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "i'm sorry," she says without a trace of sorrow ; & he scoffs and says, "no you're not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for abuse mentions because they're both honestly so shitty to each other.

and we were in flames; i needed, i needed you  
to run through my veins; like disease, disease

.

.

.

their movements in combat are swift, smooth, fluid in a singular motion --- one counteracting the other, following where the other would stop --- undoubtedly, they are mesmerizing for an audience’s eyes to follow; she is sophisticated, he is brutal. she is a dancer, her blades twirling and light on her feet to distract the perplexed, frightening would-be victims that are cornered by cloaked demons ( their _newest_ nickname given by people of a certain oppressed species, apparently ) and he will finish where she starts, his movement simplistic and slow, to savor the moment.

those are not the only intricate dances they know of, of course. and those are savored as well, the taste of sweat and salt and blood intermixing when teeth sink into flesh, their hands memorizing every curve, every muscle on the other’s form. there is a lacking grace in these rituals, for they are loveless, merciless to each other. to display weakness onto the other at their most vulnerable ( bare and exposed --- physically and literally ) would be foolishly fatal move. because they might have already tarnished their oaths willingly and entirely regarding these intimacies, neither will _stupidly_ go against their own word on becoming actually attached.

attachments serve only as anchors chained at their ankles, threatening to weigh them down and break the thin ice barriers protecting them from the dark, dark sea below; for the galaxy is cruel, and therefore they must be crueler to all in order to thrive.

.

.

.

 

acts of kindness towards the other are relatively rare, spawned from unconscious behavior so uncharacteristic to themselves; it _frightens_ them. neither reacts well, and the recipient will respond with harshness --- because they must, for _both_ of their sakes’ --- as childish as it may to be so afraid of something so harmless, so welcomed by anyone else. but when he pulls her back to avoid blaster fire, she screams and seethes that he let a distraction cause the ones in pursuit to temporarily escape ( those rebels were found and disposed of anyways; she does not thank him regardless ) and when she resorts to dressing his wounds from a different incident herself, he nearly snaps her wrist grabbing her hand to refrain from doing so, he could not be bothered.

( for the record --- he was not nearly as malicious as he intended to be; his physical strength is far superior to hers, he could _easily_ break her without intention )

.

.

.

without ever telling the other, one or the other has spent hours in solitary isolation in meditation as though it were a prison sentence --- surrounded by silence aside from their own thoughts, _begging_ to the force to carve their wretched hearts from their ribcages. just to allow them to live without one, let anger coarse through their bloodlines, and a blackened entity replace that useless, beating muscle that does nothing but seize up at the mere thought of being alone. if needbe, they would tear it out with their own hands as opposed to their swords or any substitute dagger, in order to prove a point.

this torn conflict between adoration and spite for the other is ruinous and a never-ending cycle; the benefits of dying, aside from evading from their master’s wrath, begins to look more appealing than ever. and had she not once proclaimed, ever so boldly, _let them?_ let them find us. he begins to tease the thought, snicker wickedly over what an awful fall from grace it would be, to be found in a forbidden embrace --- and by who, perhaps? the grand inquisitor, were he still alive? the easily irritated grand moff? their _master_ – the guaranteed route to an immediate execution as consequence – or his master’s master? _let them find us._ they are meant to die in a defiant manner ( against the enemies that have cornered them; or against the swords of those that claimed to have _raised_ them? ) anyhow.

.

.

.

but in the end they don’t mean it, they never do. _cowards_. for they are selfish, arrogant cowards high off power ( power in their ranks, from the weapons they wield, the terror they bring onto others ) and leering towards the edge, but unwilling to go any further.

one day, someday soon, their arrogance is going to **kill** them.

.

.

.

“i’m sorry,” she tells him sweetly, in a melodious voice that’s too kind to be true, and he knows she knows by the way she smiles at him; a coy, half-smile that barely twists the corners of her mouth, it serves as nothing more than a mask to conceal the sadistic satisfaction she gets from this. he brings his fingers from his concave cheek to see the dark liquid that coats his fingertips, barely wincing at the miniscule pain that is triggered when he moves that facial muscle, and scoffs.

“no you’re not.” he replied venomously, more annoyed at her poor attempts at feeling remorse than what she actually did. and so the curtains fall ( as fast as her smile drops ) and she resumes to glancing down at her sharpened fingertips, looking a little too prideful at the matching red coat upon her claws.

this is not the first time she’s scratched his face when attempting to cup his face; how convenient it’s only ever him and never anyone else she ever does this to.

( no, affection is definitely _not_ her forte. )

.

.

.

see, that’s the sad thing; the sad, sick, delusional pattern they throw themselves into --- where she will scratch and claw, he will pin down in a bruising hold, and become infuriated by any attempts at decency or sentimentality. there isn’t a need to be wasting precious breaths on apologies ( waste their own time in being made to listen to these poorly constructed lies ) because nice things like apologies and love proclamations? _darling, you don’t mean them_.

.

.

.

if anyone asks ( if anyone were brave enough in the attempt ) the cut was obtained by accident. others stroke the oil with embers ( igniting explosive whispers – oh, the _thrill_ to hear ill rumors of such menacing, mysterious figures ) with their own rumored inputs, and claim it was from a quarrel. everyone is very much aware of the unsettled tension between the two of them, admirals and agents alike do their best to avoid the inevitable blast radius.

_they’re going to kill each other someday_ , one voice amongst others pipes in the recordings her dearest parrot droid brings forth. she laughs ( for this one is not wrong --- in fact, they’re is right, _damn_ right ) and shares this piece of entertainment with her so-called _brother_ regardless. and they laugh, they laugh only because ( without verbally acknowledging it ) they know it’s all true.

how they even do this --- lay with each other, when both are just as capable ( just as _tempted_ ) of strangling the other in their sleep --- is a mystery in itself.

.

.

.


	3. when a  t o r n a d o meets a  v o l c a n o

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> of all the horrible wounds they've inflicted onto each other ( on purpose ) this was --- arguably --- the worst yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for choking and lightsaber wound afflictions yeaaaah

and everything you love  
will burn up in the l i g h t

.

.

.

his hand seized her throat, immense strength pinning her in a bruising holding and lightly pressing fingers capable of crushing her pharynx with only just a little more pressure added; but there is something relenting, a tremor in his fingertips she can sense, an overwhelming restraint that would not dare budge. she could say all the right words with that sharpened, silver tongue of hers and yet he would still not finish her off with the fatal squeeze.

“you won’t hurt me.” she proclaims, sputtering a cough with the limited air she’s got --- still able to bear her teeth and grin, with malice on her mouth --- she will bid her time, for this will be brief and end soon enough; she knows she’s right. she knows he knew this even before he snapped at her tricky choice of words --- insulting, degrading, arrogant; she was being rather _kind_ today to be quite frank --- with the intent to set him off.

the grip lightens, his features compromised, torn between submission and defiance --- he doesn’t want to let her go and prove she is right ( once more ) but by now, both know the outcome that will inevitably follow. he won’t do it, he can’t do it. but with her back to the wall and still in his hold --- still in his arms, from a morbid perspective --- he leans forward and leaves a series of frantic, messy kisses from her cheekbone and trailing to the side, stopping so that sharpened teeth could nibble lightly on the shell of her ear and whisper miserably;

“curse the force for making me love such a hateful woman.”

.

.

.

he thinks of it, _dreams_ of it sometimes. the slightest push. if his hold were to tighten. by just a mere inch; it would take minutes, seconds truthfully. her bones are like glass, breakable with little effort needed, but with shards that would wound him too.

.

.

.

she is right; not that she will ever live to hear the words verbally acknowledged. she has no need nor desire to hear what she already knows of; it is through the way he stalks off, defeated with a wounded pride that will not cry out in the tense silence, and through all too eager smirk that stretches across her mouth that she _knows_.

.

.

.

of all the horrible wounds they’ve ever inflicted onto each other ( on _purpose_ ) this was --- arguably --- the worst yet; their uniforms will hide the so-called craft. it is something akin to tattoos from a twisted, dim-witted perspective. markings in her culture are something earned, a representation of a series of achievements, with the thoughts of honor circulating one’s mind through each painful pinprick of the needle onto the skin.

but who ever said anything about needles?

it had been two different occasions, one for each turn ( this couldn’t have possibly been done all at once –  such a _delicate_ situation ) and with sweat glistening off of bare skin, muscles tense as hands clutched onto the sheets for salvation, the other drove the very edge of their crimson sword onto the other’s skin --- like an artist working upon a flesh made canvas --- just _barely_ made contact. regardless, the intensity of the heat is overwhelming, the screams are choked in their throats; this is not the first time either did something like that, luckily; for what little memories they hold of a so-called childhood, of first initiation into the imperial inquisitorius for that matter, are not-so-fond memories of the remnants of their youth being extinguished by screams turned whimpers. but this trivial, sadistic matter is a whole other matter.

but there was consideration, so-called care and thought placed into this; a single slip of the hand could’ve led to impalement ( an _accident_ ) but no such thing ever came to be. the incisions had been inflicted _lightly_ \--- as if there were ever such a thing as a slow knife --- and, from their perspectives, would help contribute in them slowly become tolerant to extreme forms of pain; but there is no such thing as immunity to agony, they would learn this if they were to ever ask their master.

.

.

.

his wound is a single, vertical line straight down his abdomen --- where, had she had a slip of the hand ( as she so nonchalantly, and ever so _sweetly_ , phrased it earlier ) could have splayed his organs out in the open --- and it aches, it aches and _aches_ ; but it is not fatal. how fitting; she is so good at keeping things alive for so long, even long after they have started to wish they were dead at times. she will never let him win ( but sometimes he does anyways ) nor never let him die. and everything she ever does to him is on purpose. for what other reason would she – or even he, for that matter --- ever do otherwise? cruelty is all that they know of.

but hers has illicit implications; the inside of her thighs marred, _burned_. and to think, she thought ( spoke of too; insulted him ) that he was not this clever enough. but he told her, as droplets of blood spewed from her mouth in the same nature as his had from biting his tongue, that she would remember this throbbing torment the next time there was heat between her legs for another purpose. _you’ll think of me_ , he says and in between her hysteria in dealing with the affliction, a breathless sound of laughter almost escapes her.

.

.

.

it is a damn near miracle their wounds do not become infected; otherwise, if their own bandages were ineffective, a med droid would be summoned. it would be rather difficult attempting to scourge an explanation ( without destroying the wired nuisance towards the end ) for their actions.

they tell themselves it was an attempt at learning to tolerate infliction of their swords; to become stronger. but the afflictions --- and the misery that follows in the weeks thereafter --- were a reminder, everlasting. a means of conveying a message --- one of _possession_ \--- of who they belonged to. of how much they _wanted_ the other to be theirs.

.

.

.

( it’s an awful, awful way to say _i love you_ )


	4. bang bang; my baby shot me d o w n

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this ache, it poisons their chests; ( it's called regret )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> four possible death scenarios, and no happy ending.

love you, i do  
stay here, i won’t

.

.

.

one

she stands above, like predator come to claim a victory, her eyes unrelenting and devoid of remorse as his chest rose and fell for a final time.  somehow both can’t help but feel they’ve been here before, under different circumstances; she fucks, his hands keep a bruising hold on her hips, the climax is swift and their cries choked back with one’s hand on the other’s throat, force forbid if they’re caught. then comes the parting, like strangers on soured terms, save for the whispers ( her teasing reminders ) that he is hers, to have and dispose as she pleases. and by the force, by the gods, by whatever spiritual entities may roam in these desolate voids, she’s right and she always will be. she will finish him. she will be his end. she _will_ be the one to end him.

( it’s almost something he wants )

but that time has since passed, the comforting thoughts of warmth shared in confined spaces dissipates with a sudden drop in the temperature, his last breath is a painful shudder; she would end him, but oddly enough, he never thought she would _turn_ on him. but he can’t say he’s surprised. she’s the embodiment of fury, wrapped in dark cloaks and restrained by mortality. she’s not meant to be held nor tamed nor loved, only free and selfish and self-serving. he had never been a lover, never a partner, never an equal; they were opposite ends on a balance scale, lustful for power, attempting to outweigh the other. there were ups and downs, but now there is only a standstill. and he has outlived the means of usefulness and amusement to her.

cold, cold, her body and soul were always cold --- but her eyes colder and uncaring; they both knew it would have to end like this somehow.

.

.

.

two

there are stories parents tell their children at night, stories about silly little girls who were all too trusting, all too stupid to keep the company of monsters; their inevitable demise is a lesson she should have taken to heart. but to be fair, there is only discard and dust for her childhood memories. she thought herself as one of the monsters, anyhow. what, with the massacres committed and the kingdoms burned by her hand alone, stupid little children don’t do such things.

( monsters are _made_ , not born; but all monsters were born from somewhere )

it happens too quickly for her to react; the crimson blade is cut through her abdomen, it twists and thrusts by just a little bit further, but it was _made_ to hurt. her body feels as though it has been set aflame, there is no mercy spared to allow screaming --- there are sputters, gasps, a word that is never spoken nor finished --- and her eyes are wide with fear. _fear_. she is afraid, helpless, fragile, and he has made her into all of that. where has all that confidence gone? when did everything turn on her ( _you’ll never hurt me; you can’t do it_ ) and turn into this? it was wrong, wrong of her to control him. wrong of her to claim it was done with the twisted intent of love. this is what she would deserve, for making him love her

dead, dead, she’s going to die but not soon enough --- _good_ , he’ll leave her that way.

.

.

.

three

he _knows_.

their bodies freeze and wait on bated breaths --- almost surprised their throats aren’t being telekinetically strangled then and there --- and their mental shields collapse, the pillars of their strength have failed; the floodgates of fear are opened, they look more like children caught in a crime than cold-blooded killers. they wait. wait for what? an absolution, an order, an execution. any or all three. they know what will come next, and they know how this will end. it would be considered merciful to have them pit against each other in a duel, the survivor ( there’s no winner in this outcome ) standing a chance at possible redemption for their infidelity.

( but they both know lord vader’s next move; actions contradict words, forgiveness is not something he is known for )

there is one choice that is theirs to make --- one last means of defiance --- and they seize it; in the split second before anything is said or done, before it can be stopped, they take their own swords in hand and plunge it into their own bodies. suicides are not uncommon. a prisoner taking his own life as a means to avoid a painful execution is not unheard of. but for one to kill themselves, to defy an order and have the final say one last time? the prospect is mind boggling, the subject surrounding their apparent deaths is taboo that goes unspoken; whispers of the truth are spread thin, most believe lord vader simply grew tired of them and their failures. after all, they are not the first.

( but this was almost as disappointing as it was angering )

.

.

.

four

 

sometimes, the story plays out differently, where one kills the other. it doesn’t matter if it was an act of betrayal or a means to _save_ the other from a far worse fate.

the survivor is executed by their unimpressed master regardless, seconds later, with their back turned and eyes devoted to their lover’s corpse as a feeling of foreign ache poisons their chest.

( it’s called regret )

.

.

.

five

a happy ending is not in their future, and they know it; death is an inevitable concept ( it’s a demon breathing down on their backs ) that is somehow ignored, somehow dismissed. _someday_ , yes. but someday does not have a definitive set time.

the galaxy is a war torn place, with pillars made of corpses upholding the root of power, and led by men who think themselves as gods based on what they can or can’t ( and can’t being as of yet ) destroy.

for now, in all this chaos they prosper.

( because nobody knows about us, darling )

.

.

.


	5. the lovers that went w r o n g

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's a strange craving; wanting to be remembered, but not loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short bit of a three part drabble.

and if you’re still breathing, you’re the lucky ones  
‘cause most of us are still heaving through corrupted lungs setting our insides on fire for fun

.

.

.

their eyes sought for the other standing across the room --- a mere flicker, a forgettable glance to some --- with an apparent look of indifference; what? can respectable comrades not be allowed to simply _look_ at the other? must every glance --- every action, every reaction, it’s all connected, a domino effect of falling pillars capable of crushing bystanders --- be considered so suspicious, so dangerous?

( some people dismiss or simply never realize; some think he is _entirely_ blind )

sometimes, it’s rather disappointing when they go unnoticed; how can these two be so pitiful, so attention starved for the adrenaline triggering risk? there is nothing that spells fun, to the sane minded individual, of all eyes being on them and their every movements; but the feelings are altered for two souls who know that otherwise they will someday die unnoticed, never remembered. they want to be remembered anyways, for something. arguably, that is the only mutual desire that cannot be faulted.

because here in the lion’s den, made to mingle with bloodthirsty rivals and intimidated inferiors, everyone wants something of themselves to survive; and whether or not it is their physical presence or a lingering whisper of their name, it depends on their choices.

.

.

.

it’s a strange craving; to want to be _remembered_ , but not _loved_. love is irrelevant, a poisonous and useless abnormality, forbidden to them as a means to protect them from distraction.

and so love is discarded, it never crosses either one’s mind. what they yearn for is a legacy ( an untainted one ) of achievements, as opposed to failures like their predeceased superior. the aroma of fear stinking off innocent civilians, huddled and cowering before their presence, is not enough. they want the ghosts of their names to paralyze the spine of the teller that dares utter them, they want rumors to corrupt the truth --- where people are so afraid of them, they make up delusional stories of horrendous things they never even did.

( they want those lies to _pale_ in comparison to what they did anyways )

.

.

.

“someday, parents will tell their children stories of all the terrible things we did – “ there is a halt, a hitch in his throat, tense hesitance constricts his voice until he chooses his next words wisely. “ – for our _empire_.”

he says it with such a righteous pride, as if there’s something justifiable in all the madness of these massacres carried by their hands.

.

.

.

( it’s habit of theirs to be _proud_ of all the wrong choices they’ve ever done. )

.

.

.

and _that_ , that is what they tell themselves they want more than anything; and _this_ , this undefined thing of theirs is --- strictly carnal. an insatiable appetite for a thrill ( the thrill of what? challenging temptation and fate altogether until they’re caught? ) in between the heat and friction. their bodies crave stimulation, as a way of reminding themselves that they are alive once the edge of a kill has worn off. it stirs with the intensity of a wound, then dissipates after but they know it will only resurge again soon.

( it is an urge. an unrelenting addiction. )

this ache is bottomless and never resting. the torment follows them in their sleep, in their dreams; hope, an alternate fate, one that is never too far gone within reach. but in their eyes it is blasphemy --- one does not simply leave the inquisitorius, after all, the only exit is through death --- and it cannot be helped on their part. they are children weaned on venom and malice. the only response they know and can rely on is hate, so anything outside that spectrum is accursed and wrong.

.

.

.

naturally, love’s worth is made to be mocked and belittled by them.

except for one instance.

.

.

.


	6. it turns to c h a o s; hurricanes all around us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'i love you' he says; & she's waiting on a punchline that's never coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2 of a 3 part drabble. // highkey lowkey implies a bilingual headcanon on fifth too.

and oh, poor atlas, the world’s a beast of a burden   
you’ve been holding on for so long

.

.

.

_( i love you )_

_( i love you )_

_( i love you )_

.

.

.

there’s a language that he knows, she has no name for it but she _swears_ she knows that she has heard it from somewhere. the knowledge was instilled so deep in his mind that none of the cleansing by the empire could have erased it, it would seem. whereas all his memories of his identity are forever lost, this remains. there’s an archive of secrets on his tongue, spoken in broken and convoluted phrases all over her body. between a series of kisses trailing from the shell of her ear to the curve of her neck, sharp collarbone to cleavage, the length of her stomach and ending in a whisper between her thighs.

she thinks they’re delusional phrases, a meaningless poetic melody, and she hasn’t a clue as to what he means. she cannot be bothered, it’s too difficult to think when she’s busy gripping at the sheets.

.

.

.

_( i love you )_

.

.

.

of course _he_ says it first, in basic for her to understand loud and clear.

the simplistic brute, in her eyes at least, who could ( who should but does not ) crush her in his grip is the one to break. had he lost all common sense? adopted a strange sense of humor?

she waits. she’s waiting for a punchline that isn’t coming, and still she laughs. it’s her defense mechanism in handling uncomfortable situations, it’s her way of retaining a calm before the storm.

and he isn’t waiting on a bated breath, with a trace of hope for her to requite what has been spoken. he is neither proud nor remorseful, he looks like a man trying to lighten a burdenous weight on his shoulders. how long could he allow these words to crush him, how long must he endure. was this a trick, a ploy ( suffer with me, beloved ) or an absolution?

( it was, perhaps, the first choice entirely on his own; aside from the one made to end up in this entangled mess )

he knows, he _knows_ there is something there from her too --- why else would they keep coming back to each other like this?

.

.

.

he, too, waits. he is hoping for an answer, but bracing himself for a violent storm.

.

.

.

a pause.

“i love you.”

the vow that set the silence, is repeated once more with the intent to break it.

.

.

.

a slow, shaking tremor of a voice --- laced with anger and agony --- rises.

“ _don’t_.”

.

.

.


	7. i need to kill you; it's the only way to get you out of my h e a d

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "i'll kill you," she says; & he replies "then do it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // buries face into hands and weeps i hate these two trashcans. part 3 of 3 part drabble.

you just did the impossible, gained my trust so don’t play games   
it’ll be dangerous if you fuck me over, ‘cause I’ve been burnt before   
i’ll show you what it’s like to hurt

.

.

.

there’s a line that’s not meant to be crossed and he’s just _crossed_ it.

and by doing so, essentially, he’s got the lit match in hand ready to drop. there’s a series of hidden trails, of places they and only they alone know of, marked by a breadcrumb path made of gasoline. a combination of fatal poisons and chemicals not meant to be mixed, that work their way slowly if left alone, would all become exposed. everything _burns_. like a light of dawning realization shining upon them, the empire ( men blinded by face covering caps or heads held high and lightweight by their arrogance ) would finally understand.

everything she has ever done is motivated by selfishness or a sense of selflessness, usually to do with devotion to her orders.

she’s not being selfish; she’s being _sane_.

.

.

.

ironic, coming from the one who dismissed paranoia with a decry of _let them_. if she could return to the past, and best believe she would seize the opportunity were it possible, she would do everyone a favor and strangle her past self before those stupid, stupid words are even a coherent sound making its way to her throat. she wants to viciously tear her tongue out too, to ensure nothing else along those lines ever makes it past her lips again, and once she’d bled out she’d tell herself she’s being the heroic one here for the sacrifice of her body and limbs.

( she’s learned that heroes must suffer to acquire their names, she wants no part in that )

.

.

.

she’s not being selfish; she’s, begrudgingly, trying to save the both of them even when that apparent intent is not conveyed properly.

( or maybe it’s because she’s afraid )

.

.

.

but fear is the last emotion anyone would think is being expressed on her features; she’s turned on him before either can comprehend it --- his words have struck a chord, an exposed nerve that is easily agitated --- her hands have turned into those claws, the intent to hurt is very much present. he shouldn’t be surprised from this loveless lash from her. this is unnatural, this is wrong --- even with their compromised morals, even when they’ve willingly ended up like this, affection is still akin to witchcraft --- this is his last chance to atone and refrain, to take it back. take it all back.

he doesn’t.

then that’s when the explosion sets off; the black ice and steel in her eyes are burning and suddenly their bodies twist and she’s on top ( only because he is unprepared, not lacking strength ) with her hands sealed around his neck. tight tight tighter. she coils, surrounds him. he sputters, struggling to breathe and paralyzed by an absent willpower to want to fight her; compared to this living ache, death is almost welcoming after that final proclamation.

but like children tempting leashed animals with their hands, the jaws will snap forward as they want just as they pull their hands away. someday, when one isn’t fast enough or the mysterious forces of the galaxy tires of their wicked antics, they’re going to get bit and there will be no one to blame but their inability to learn.

in other words, they already know how this is going to end.

“don’t you – **_ever_** – ever say that to me.” she spews, trembling and tightening that hold, as though he’s just spoken ill of her pride and family; she’s insulted by this stupidity, from both him and his presumption of her. does he want them to be found, to suffer and be humiliated before execution --- and for what? over something so … _so_ petty. she’s enraged, she’s infuriated, she’s…

she’s a frightened child, who has never known the affection of a mother coddling her or the warmth of a place to call home that which welcomes her. or maybe she used to, maybe. but those are irrelevant, those were discarded because they made her weak and stupid and blind.

_( your own mother_ – if she could see you now – _would be repulsed by you anyways_ )

he doesn’t fight her hold. at least, he doesn’t think of it as fighting when so little energy is placed into his efforts. he’s reached up to grab her wrists in a hold that can snap them like dried out twigs, but he waits. with a struggling rise and fall of his chest --- she’s angry, now he’s done it. she _really_ wants to hurt him this time --- he waits to see what she wants, what she’ll do.

“i’ll kill you, brother. i swear on our master’s name, in the name of the force itself, i’ll rip you apart.” she continues this hollow storm of violence, all thunder and no lightning strikes, because the silence startles her _. i’ll kill you i’ll kill you i’ll kill you_ , perhaps if she says it enough times it’ll begin to sound convincing enough for him. she expects him to laugh and mock her barren threats that are built on unstable walls ( the reciprocation is hiding somewhere in her ) except that he doesn’t, but on the other hand he doesn’t appear angry either.

“then do it.” is all he says, his strangled whispers are as dry and thin as her threats, but part of him almost _wants_ her to.

the defiance sets her off. she’s already well acquainted with rage, but she didn’t know she could become so much angrier than this. she squeezes, her claws are threatening to puncture his skin and her teeth are grit, muting that shrill retort of _i will i will i will_.

and like a junkie drawn to a fix ( always back for more ) the rush of anger wears away, sucking out her strength with it. her hold loosens, and with this strange feeling of calmness that follows does awareness settle as well; the skin of her forearms are littered with hideous, reddish- purple bruises from his hold. she should be howling in pain, that’s how humans react.

( but she’s not human --- _you’re not anything, you are one, you belong to the empire_ )

there’s nothing either can say to heal the harm that has been done tonight. as far as either one is concerned, this day has ended and if not, it must end now. whether it’s a deflated ego or weakness eating at her bones, she’s drained and numb. she collapses atop of him, ignoring the soft grunt he makes only seconds after he’s caught his breath, unmoving for the rest of the night.

gradually, he becomes aware of the soft and wet feeling between the crook of his neck where she’s buried her face into.

.

.

.

( everyone in the galaxy has heard that malicious laugh of hers; only he has ever seen her cry )

.

.

.

of course he’s asleep when she says it, scared and alone and a coward without a soul in these unholy lands to hear, with no one to bother or disturb in their small sanctuary for now.

_(_ _i love you )_

she spends a standard hour or so attempting to form the words alone, mouthing them silently and drawing them by tracing her finger upon his chest, somehow hoping he’ll recognize this message.

_( i love you_ _)_

this is going to kill her someday, she knows it.

_“i love you.”_

.

.

.

the dead don’t speak and the blind don’t see, but he’s silently thanking the force he’s no deaf man when those words leave her lips.

( the paranoid, the ache, the bruises. it’s worth it, _it’s worth it_ )

.

.

.


	8. loose lips sink s h i p s

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> & perhaps, perhaps it's better this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((: i love happy endings ((:

and brick by brick we started crumbling  
will i find you when it falls?  
( can we ever go back again? )

.

.

.

“i love you.”

( sprawled. organs splayed out. already dead before he can drown in his own blood. )

brows crossed, as if she didn’t know. “ – why?”

( the flashing crimson blur cuts her throat to end that scream. )

this is a combination of their own language, a code, and her natural response all at once – _not_ _now_ ; which really means not ever. the vow will never surpass her lips again, that the knot was tightened and the fitting blades came down all at once in a storm ( saying it will someday kill them both; she just hasn’t decided on how yet ) and yet he will always say it.

blatantly, he responds; “just in case.”

( fitting ---- they’re separated because it was what they _deserved_. )

.

.

.

the eighth brother is an idiot. that much can be agreed between the two, without any question. while useful, yes, _at times_ , greed seems to override all other vices and virtues in this thinking process. actually, on that note, sometimes it’s suspected he hardly thinks much at all. an overly ambitious headache, oh so desperate to outdo his so-called siblings, their own tension and private spats are temporarily diverted to mutually disliking him.

to which, they quickly realize, that he doesn’t ever actually stop being useful because of that; it has nothing to do with combative skills --- or lack thereof --- or quick thinking. he serves well as a scapegoat, as someone to die first ( unknowingly yet willingly because of how he volunteers himself for the sake of honor ---  poor little fool ) for them.

he is the relief so that neither has to worry for the other’s sake. wanting him dead isn’t something they desperately need, nor really want all that much.

it’s just in case.

.

.

.

the morning of is slow, shrewd, and somber. she leaves first from his hold and like a ghost cascading across the floors, dresses in silence and thinks nothing of it. death isn’t a frightening thought that crosses their minds, in fact, it never leaves. it is always with them, a very much alive sentient that has taken root in their brains --- seems rather fair, when all they ever do is serve as the hand and _kill kill kill_ \--- and dances across their shadows. they have accepted this host, embraced it, allowed it to survive by taking pieces of them.

that doesn’t mean they want it ( most times )

.

.

.

“when we come back from this,” she begins, without ever really looking up to him, boldly using the term ‘when’ instead of ‘if’ as always. “i --- need to talk to you.”

she maintains distance, both physically and in the tone of her voice. he almost reaches for her, before wisely deciding against it.

“about what?” he finally asks.

 “after malachor.” is all she replies, affirming what she said before. she shakes her head and turns from him, dismissing the conversation as if it never happened; they’re quite good in the art of disregarding anything that’s happened between them before, regardless of time: hours, minutes, seconds. all it takes is a blink and it wasn’t missed --- it just never happened.

_after malachor_. short. brief. quiet. it stays with him in an echo on repeat.

.

.

.

she dies before she can reach for him by any means, and he dies oblivious. the only considerable mourners are the remaining parrot droids, who in a panic stricken flurry, wander aimlessly with an unanswered cries for their mistress.

maybe it was for the better.

( it is hardly a loss; the empire will suffice, there are plenty of others within the order to take and take and use ‘til there’s none left )

.

.

.

_“what happens if one of us perishes?”_

_“it’s simple: we don’t, then.”_

.

.

.

fin.


End file.
